Had Gadyah
by ifollowapollo
Summary: Lecter's first sight of Starling three years after his escape, what led him to do it, and the effect it has on him. Okay, it doesn't faithfully follow the canon, but that's okay, right? Umm, this story is complete. I thought it was a good ending...no?


This is perhaps the first of a series of incidents where Dr. Lecter had contact with Agent Starling in the interim between _SOTL_ and _Hannibal_, as per Harris' reference in _Hannibal_.

"A kid, an only kid  
My father bought for two zuzim."

The slender man on the slender bed in the little room did not sleep.  He strained for the sound of a lilting voice, but the voice was long forgotten, if not the words. 

"Came a cat and ate the kid,   
Came a dog and ate the cat,"

The images remained fresh, as if seen but yesterday:  A woman, heavy with child on her slender frame, sat reading aloud in the sunlight of the palace nursery.  An uncommon sight, in that era, to find a noblewoman in the nursery, a place relegated to nursemaids.  Perhaps it was the blood of the poor, yet passionately erudite, young poet who had, some three hundred years before, captured the heart of an aging aristocrat in the _ghetto vecchio_, perhaps it was that hot, red Portuguese blood running through Donata's thin, blue veins that engendered such flagrant displays of impropriety.  And perhaps it was the ancient, blue blood that flowed in equal proportion that allowed her to do it with unimpeachable style.

A dignified woman, still young enough to feel the weight of the world on her slim shoulders at only the slightest exposure to the suffering outside her enchanted sphere, sought relief in the ancient human hope for redemption.  News of the Nazi advancement into her ancestral homeland necessitated some action to counteract her horror, so she half read, half sang:

"Came a stick and hit the dog,   
Came a fire and burned the stick,"

Her young son had entered the room unbeknownst to her, and stood watching his mother.  Not yet four years of age, his eyes already brimmed with intelligent curiosity.  He noted at once the sad ponderance of her recital, the evidence of dried tears on her pallid cheeks—and that the sunlight reflected oddly white on raven hair.  
  


"Came water and extinguished the fire,   
Came an ox and drank the water,  
Came a slaughterer and slew the ox,   
Came the angel of death and slew the slaughterer,  
Came the Holy One, blessed be He,  
And slew the angel of death."

The vivid imagery her words evoked dissipated into a confusing blank at the conclusion, and Hannibal moved to his mother, careful to alert her to his presence with otherwise unnecessary noisemaking in device such as his footsteps, and even his breathing.  Too often, he had frightened her and others, and had learned it was best not to do it, if it could be helped.

"Hannibal!  What are you doing here?  Where is Ana?"  Hannibal had left his nurse to her dinner, the daily repast for which she seemed to live, the meal after which she was always rather groggy.

"What does it mean, mother?  The story?"  Sad, and somewhat uncertain, his mother responded:

"It tells of redemption.  Of the great path of life, and how justice awaits along the way to eternal life with God in heaven."

"That is good, right?"

"Of course."

"Then why are you sad?"

Sometimes it was difficult to remember that she was addressing a young child when she spoke with her son, and young Donata thought carefully before giving him an answer.  "I suppose I am sad to think that there must be so much pain and suffering along the way, that justice is so late in coming."  She smiled to soften her words.

Hannibal understood, beyond his years, the great ordination:  that there must first be some great wrong, some horrible atrocity, unto which justice could be administered.  But he didn't have the words to express this fundamental understanding to his mother, and so he merely said, "Don't cry, mother.  Life is as God has made it," and was rewarded with a gentle press of her soft hand at his cheek.

Hannibal emerged from his waking dream, feeling the warm, gentle touch, and the urge to take another step along the path.

*  *  *

Even half asleep, it felt wrong.  The day felt wrong before she even opened her eyes, and Clarice sighed, wishing it wasn't a cold, Wednesday morning, wishing she could avoid what would assuredly be the worst assignment of her dangerous, yet somehow stagnant, career.  Well, second-worst assignment, she thought.

And thus, Clarice Starling began her day as she often did, with Hannibal Lecter on her mind.  "All roads lead to Rome, and all thoughts lead to Lecter," she muttered, as she pushed the unwelcome memories aside and prepared to meet the task at hand.

*  *  *

The bird watched the insect, the woman watched the bird, and Lecter watched the woman.  Only to the outsider is it apparent that the scene eerily parallels the childhood rhyme taught to young Hannibal Lecter long ago, the one that still resounded in the caverns of his mind this early October morning.

An outsider might also think it odd that Lecter uses a pair of opera glasses with which to observe Agent Starling "in action", as it were—though she hadn't moved much in the last two hours—as if she were the star of some tasteless, yet wickedly entertaining, reality show.

It had been three years since he'd written to Agent Starling from the comfort of a plush hotel room in St. Louis, his last contact with her.  Though he had seen her several times in the media blitz immediately following his escape from the authorities, and though she'd been far more visible in the various snippets of newsreel he'd so avidly watched than she was in this moment, a mere thirty yards away, but ensconced in the back of an appropriately nondescript government fleet sedan, none of those digitally transmitted images had conveyed the frissons of charged, electrical excitement that now sallied up and down his elegantly deported spine.

Presented with only her shadowy profile, his mind filled the shape with the textures and colors he knew underlay the shadows, and he saw her, nevertheless, clearly—more than she could imagine—from his vantage point on the roof of the apartment building across the street from the house the BATF was staking out in Olney.

Inside the car, Clarice dragged her eyes from the still, white bird and took a deep breath, calming the sudden attack of nerves that accosted her as a white car rounded the corner ahead of them and turned into the driveway.  They were looking for a weasel of a man who was supposed to testify against a major arms dealer, but who'd bailed in the final hours for fear of reprisal.  He was believed to have close ties with the woman residing in the small house ahead of them on Farthing Road.  The car pulled into the carport, and she received the go ahead to make her move.  

She opened the door and stepped out, stretching her legs a little as she gathered her bag and clipboard, and walked the half-a-block to the woman's house.  This morning, for this assignment, Special Agent Clarice Starling sold college savings plans.  All Starling had to do was get the woman to open the door.  If the woman let her in, then great.  If she didn't, then just step out of the way and they would do the rest.  That's it.  That's all.

Starling walked somewhat more slowly than her normal gait, her now intentionally cheap shoes clicking evenly on the pavement.  As she neared the house, she noted how well-kept the place was, how much cheer the simple flowers planted along the walls added to the modest home.  As she approached the front door, she passed a brightly colored plastic toy, evidence of the three children this single mother was known to have, and she looked at the old car that had probably just transported the children to school.  A white stuffed animal, a cat, glared at her from the rear dash, and Clarice had to summon her hard-won professional demeanor to cover the guilt she felt at using a mother's love in this way.  She had every intention of getting into the woman's home to case it, case her, get the guy.  They had to get the guy.  It was important to get the guy.

She repeated this until she reached the door, and rang the doorbell.  It's better that I do it, Clarice told herself.  At least she could be subtle.

Clarice wasn't sure precisely what caused the fine hairs on the back of her neck to rise.  She had the inexplicable urge to run like hell, but stayed glued to the spot, unable to stop herself from turning to look back in the direction of the sedan—but not _at_ the sedan.  Instead, her eyes were drawn upwards, and she would never know where her gaze had intended to land, because the door swung open and the familiar flash of a bullet's discharge glowed from the darkened interior. 

Lecter had not moved, other than to form a small "O" with his mouth the moment he'd seen the curtains at the side window twitch just as Starling turned in his direction.  He had exchanged the antique Lamier opera glasses for the more powerful Swarovski Optiks the moment Starling had exited the car in her casually feminine attire.  Even in the bargain store blouse and A-line skirt, there was an air about her comportment that clearly bespoke she was no mere door-to-door saleslady.  The moment he'd had that thought, he'd known the danger to her.  And somehow, so had she.

He watched as the scene unfolded with exquisite detail, watched as her body jerked and she rolled to the ground, and only breathed again when she regained her feet and reached the relative safety of the carport.  The wide-angle lenses allowed him to absently record the peripheral activity of the three BATF agents who'd spun that Government Issue car onto the well-kept lawn to rain gunfire on the little house while he kept his focus on the woman pressing a blood-reddened hand tightly to her shoulder.  Then she again turned in his direction, and he saw her face clear and whole.  Seized with pain, and the possibility of imminent death, her expression was entirely free of fear.

And only in that moment did Lecter feel the threat of loss.  

He lowered his binoculars, thrust them back into his bag, and picked up the Lamier.  While shouts and myriad reports rang through the air, he inspected in detail his recent acquisition.  He'd paid a visit to a small antique shop in Kensington the night before, hoping to find an appropriate gift for his Starling when he'd come across the rare black pearl inlaid opera glasses.  The moment he'd seen the lustrous dark sheen of the barrels, he'd known he wanted his first sight of Starling to be through the lenses that had doubtless seen some amazing star performances in its time.  Though he hadn't found the adequate gift he'd intended, he'd considered the effort a great success for this find.

Now, he wondered if he shouldn't perhaps revisit the Antique Row, and do a little more shopping before embarking on the long journey home.  Yes, he was decided.  He packed the glasses neatly into their case, and tucked it carefully into his bag, rising to leave without a glance back at the scene still unfurling below him.

*  *  *

Clarice gazed groggily through the car window as the driver made his way to the Capital Beltway.  She'd just been released from the Surgery Center in Silver Spring, and it was early evening now.  The shoppers were out in full swing in the popular Kensington district, making the traffic fairly heavy.  

Still unsettled from the events of the day, Clarice took comfort in observing the normalcy around her.  She imagined the pedestrians on the streets were enjoying the evening out after a long, hard day at the office.  They were out having dinner with colleagues from work, maybe on their way to the movies.  She glanced at her fellow agent at the wheel, a somber man in his forties who hadn't made the slightest effort at conversation, and turned her attention back to the friendlier strangers on the streets.  Everyone seemed to be on their way somewhere.  Some were perhaps having coffee with friends, maybe talking about the news.  But they were not _in_ the news.  No.  Not them.  

She wasn't one of them, not as long as she was in the news, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that.  Starling had yet to learn that the shooter had been one of Diego's men, that the woman had been disposed of the moment she'd stepped into the house, that there were at least three new orphans in Maryland this day.  And that they would never find the weasel.

Clarice sighed, still floating on the good drugs, and caught herself staring at the back of a man walking ahead of them with a parcel under each arm.  He moved fluidly, beautifully, and her gaze settled comfortably on his form as the car neared him and picked up speed where the traffic thinned.  She even turned her head to postpone losing sight of him, but they turned off Howard Street and he was gone.

Dr. Lecter caught a blurred glimpse of a pale face staring at him as a black sedan sailed past him, and forced his steps to slow.  When he reached his hotel room, he made busy work of untying his parcels and inspecting his purchases, though he hadn't missed a single detail prior to his purchasing them.  Once he'd completed his evening ablutions, repacked his purchases into the bag he would carry on to his flight in the morning, and had nothing else to do, then, and only then, did he allow himself to turn on the television and watch the news.

Fifteen minutes later, the room was once again quiet, the lights and television off as he lay on the surface of the bedcovers, possessed of the terrible knowledge that he was not alone.


End file.
